


Masks and Misdirections

by Fiendfyre



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ballet, Developing Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-30
Updated: 2013-08-30
Packaged: 2017-12-24 21:20:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/944793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fiendfyre/pseuds/Fiendfyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At 25 Lestrade sees a performance that stays with him for the rest of his life</p>
            </blockquote>





	Masks and Misdirections

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mystradesss](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Mystradesss).



> This was written for the summer mystrade gift exchange on Tumblr for [mystradesss](http://mystradesss.tumblr.com/) who asked for a non-established relationship ballet!lock or greaser!lock fic. I went with Ballet, sort of. I think the direction I went in isn't quite what you may have had in mind but I hope you like it anyway!

Gregory Lestrade was twenty-five when he first saw it, twenty-five and trying desperately to come to terms with his life as a newly minted police officer. Difficult after being the guitarist in a vaguely punk band when he was 16 called “Butterfly Knives” with both a song beautifully titled “Fuck the Police” and an unpublished album called “Bureaucracy and other cruelties”. He was sure his mother would have appreciated the irony, had she been there to see it. Sadly his fathers reaction had not been caught on camera, Greg had never seen him laugh so hard in his life. He still didn’t look the part, or even really feel it, despite being a PC. During his off hours he donned his old leather jacket, slicked his hair with industrial strength wax to distract from his prematurely greying hair and went to slightly seedy pubs reminiscent of his youth. 

He was walking home from just such a night out when he saw it. It was only a poster, one of the many that adorned the walls and street poles of London, but for some reason the flash of red from the corner of his eye made him pause.

Its design was reminiscent of a band poster or album artwork with bold lines, a single deep-red title drawing the eye and a group of male silhouettes against the grey background. What had drawn his eye so effectively was the photograph of the lead performer in the foreground. The man was pale, unnaturally so, with a red mask obscuring his features. His eyes were open but the black and white made it impossible to tell what colour they were; still they were pale and piercing. White lettering at the bottom read:

_Performing an original choreographed dance at University Hall on Saturday 16th May 1989. Tickets £5 at the door_

Greg looked back up to the title, “Conversations” by Les Hommes. He smiled and carefully pulled the tape away from the pole and lifted the poster away, he had no intention of attending the performance, but the poster was beautiful and he couldn’t help but be a little jealous of the elegance and poise of the masked dancer. Not many people would refer to Gregory Lestrade as ‘elegant’ and, in the general sense, they would be right to avoid the word. 

He was not graceful, nor was he creative or poetic, but it did not follow that he was clumsy or awkward. He moved with purpose and conviction, without artifice or grace. He knew what he was, and what he wasn’t, but he had always wished he could be more careful and contained, harder to read with an illusive air. He would have preferred to be mistaken for haughty or arrogant than mistaken for a thug (something that had happened more than once). He wished his voice, his movements and his appearance did not project his upbringing quite so clearly. He had worked hard to pull himself out of the lower class, crime heavy neighbourhood that he had grown up in. At first he had attempted to conform to the kind of attitude, likes and dislikes, expected of him by his peers. He rode around on a motorcycle, wearing leather and piercings like body armour, smoked heavily, drunk more than was advisable and participated in some petty theft. Eventually at 18 he had shed the attitude, if not the clothing, and decided to uphold the law rather than undermine it.

As the date of the performance drew closer he found himself thinking more and more about it, and the enigmatic dancer. He wanted to see the man move, he wanted to see what his body could do and how that poise would translate in his dance. In fact he got within a block of the hall the night of the performance, with every intention of attending, before his DI called him in to work.

He put the issue behind him, only a little disappointed, and continued on his regular routine of work, pub, sleep; work, pub, sleep. He didn’t think on it again until a chilly autumn night 6 months later when he rounded the same street corner and his gaze was directed again to a poster. It had the same style, although the silhouettes were positioned differently, with a table between them, and the leading man was wearing a pure white mask that matched the title text.

 _“Negotiations”_ by _Les Hommes_

Without a second thought he took the second poster home and marked the date in his diary.

When he arrived at the hall he made a point to be late. Not late enough to miss any of the performance but late enough to slip in when everyone else was already seated. He had briefly entertained the idea of asking a girl on a date to see it, but then dismissed the idea because he was worried he’d embarrass himself by being more interested in the dance than the girl. It was only after he’d paid his fee and quietly entered the hall that he realised that _Les Hommes_ weren’t just _any_ dance troop. They were ballet dancers. An all male troupe of ballet dancers. 

On stage all six of the dancers wore masks, five wore plain black and one wore the eye-catching pure white from the poster, each costume matched the masks perfectly. From his position at the back of the hall he couldn’t see clearly, but the way the man in white moved and how he held himself made it obvious to Lestrade that is was the same man from the poster. The lead dancer moved like water, fluid, cold and powerful in a display that was so much like a physical representation of a hostile negotiation that Lestrade could not look away. The dancers in black stepped forward, one by one, to dance with the lead and each attempted to counter his movements like a non-contact martial art with lifts and turns and twirls that advertised the best of the male body. The pure strength and grace took his breath away and the tights they were wearing left nothing to the imagination. The dance was mesmerising, powerful and fluidly violent yet it was still ballet. Lestrade barely noticed the performance ending or the hall emptying, the dancer frozen in his last position on stage transfixed him.

When the lights in the hall were turned on to allow the audience to file out Lestrade snapped out of his stupor and he quickly darted out the exit. The dance had certainly given him much to think about.

***

At forty-one Lestrade still woke up every morning to posters he’d nicked from a London street corner and a worn ticket stub from the night he realised that someone could be simultaneously beautiful and terrifying. Coincidently it was also the night he had realised that the male body made his blood sing in a way that the female body had rarely managed, the night he discovered the freedom of understanding his sexuality. 

Of course it took him another couple of years to fully accept that he enjoyed the company of both men and women in his bed (though not at the same time, he’d tried that once and it had ended up being far too messy for his tastes). At first the posters had remained rolled up under his bed, as if they were shameful, but eventually he accepted his sexuality and displayed them. He had gotten them professionally framed and they had pride of place in his small flat.

They were important to him in a way he could not quite describe. He had come very close to proposing to a woman when he was in his early 30s but her reaction to those posters had been rather telling. Jenny had been adamant that they ruined the décor of the room and when they got married they would have to go. Of course her reaction to his posters was part of a troublesome trend of selfish and domineering behaviour that, along with her slightly wandering eye, had put doubt into his mind in the first place. 

The posters hadn’t been the final straw; it had been her reaction of horror and disgust when he had told her that he was bisexual that had changed his mind. He wouldn’t marry a bigot. That particular relationship had ended on such a bitter note that he had never quite managed to start properly dating again. There had been a few men and women that had flitted in and out of his life, but by the time he was thirty-five he had given up on those meaningless short–lived connections as well. He had made the rank of Detective Inspector around that time and had been busy enough at work to be completely content with social interaction with his friends and his father.

Simon Lestrade had been a good father, even after the death of his wife when Greg had been 16. Greg didn’t resent being brought up in a poor area, but he had worked hard to get out of that place and so had his father. It was difficult being a single parent under any circumstances, but his mother’s care had drained a significant proportion of their savings because she could no longer work. They had moved to the poorer area after she first got sick, when Greg was 5, to help handle the loss of income. Simon Lestrade had cut back his hours at work to look after his wife during her last few months and his shifts had been given to someone else so he wasn’t able to pick them back up when she died. They managed to keep their flat, but only just. They both pulled themselves back from the brink of bankruptcy and now his father had his own mechanics shop and Greg was a Detective Inspector with a promising career. 

It wasn’t exactly a rags to riches story but Greg was proud of the collective achievements of his little family. Every month Greg would head over to his father’s auto shop and work on whatever project they had at the time. They had restored three motorcycles and one beautiful Aston Martin DB-5 that had been left to his father in very poor condition by his great uncle. While the projects were theirs they did sell the end products. The DB-5 had been purchased less than three weeks after it’s completion, and both Lestrades had looked on as it’s gleaming red form was towed from the shop.

Lestrade had a few close friends at the yard; most of them had known him for at least a decade. Many of the cadets in his class at the academy had moved on to work outside of London but he had quickly made new friends at the Met. He was very close with Gregson, a fellow DI, Dimmock, the sergeant in his unit, as well as Molly, the new medical examiner at St Barts Hospital. His social calendar may not be buzzing, but Lestrade was content. 

He was visiting Molly, as she was examining the body of a man who had died under suspicious circumstances, when he first met Sherlock Holmes. They were standing around the body, a man in his mid thirties, when the door slammed open revealing a dishevelled young man, with a distinctive mop of dark unruly curls and the unmistakeably energetic, jerky movements and blown pupils of someone on serious drugs. Molly winced, but didn’t look overly surprised.

Lestrade was astonished when the drug addled man laid out the specifics of the case, gave a cause of death that seemed consistent and a completely implausible explanation. Lestrade was a police officer with significant experience and he knew it was impossible to ‘deduce’ the murderer from a single viewing of the body without any background knowledge or access to the crime scene.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” he spluttered, getting over his initial shock as quickly as possible.

“Of course it makes sense, Detective Inspector,” the young man had scoffed. He proceeded to explain, in minute detail, his reasoning behind his ‘deductions’. Greg looked at Molly, then back to the young man.

She cleared her throat and said apologetically. “Greg, this is Sherlock Holmes. He went to uni with my brother…briefly. He’s a genius but…” she trailed off.

“A drug addict,” Greg supplied, she nodded sadly. Lestrade ran a hand through his hair distractedly. Sherlock was still talking as if they were still listening to his deductions. “Well that sounds fascinating,” he said as he made a snap decision, one he expected to regret instantly, cutting Sherlock off mid sentence, “how about you come to the yard with me so we can verify all that information?”

He blinked, “you’re going to listen to me?”

“Maybe,” Lestrade replied carefully, “but I can’t just go and take your word for it, I don’t know anything about you. I do need to verify the information and if you’re right we can talk some more.”

“Talk?” He asked, “About what?”

Lestrade’s gaze flicked over the twitching strung out form of the young man once more and he felt a moment of doubt but pressed on. “If you can get clean we might be able to offer you a position at the Met as a consultant. Unofficially.”

“I’m always right,” he muttered.

“He is!” Molly interjected brightly. Lestrade threw her a quelling look. 

“Well, I can’t just take your word for it, can I?”

“I’m a genius. You and your pathetic police force are all idiots,” he snapped, “I’m right. What else do you need?”

“Evidence, of course,” he replied evenly trying to ignore his irritation. While under the influence of drugs people often acted more aggressive and antisocial than usual, but Lestrade had a suspicion that Sherlock Holmes was pretty much always like this, drugs or no. “I would be a poor police officer indeed if I failed to look at the evidence for myself.” He couldn’t resist a small dig “and the testimony of a junkie who claims to be a genius is hardly going to get me convictions is it?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes but, after a minute of tense silence, he nodded.

Somehow Sherlock’s deductions were right, and Greg agreed to let Sherlock consult, under probation. In the next few weeks he arrived, unannounced and uninvited, to several crime scenes and solved them all in minutes. He liked to make a public spectacle, but he had yet to arrive at a crime scene high. After the fourth time he had waltzed in Greg had demanded his mobile number and had a firm discussion about boundaries. He made it clear Sherlock was to come when asked, and only when asked, and in exchange Greg would call him in on any case that seemed ‘interesting’. During that discussion Lestrade had laid down the law, Sherlock wasn’t to take drugs during any of the investigations he conducted for the Met, or their arrangement would be terminated immediately. His officers weren’t stupid, despite what Sherlock said about them and if they suspected that the young man was taking drugs they would arrest him immediately. 

One morning as he sat in his office filling in seemingly endless forms and fielding increasingly irate texts from Sherlock demanding an ‘interesting’ case for once, he came to a startling realisation. Somehow this brittle, brilliant younger man had wormed his way into Greg’s life and he found himself feeling increasingly protective of him. Sherlock was rude, arrogant and infuriating but he seemed so isolated, so very _lonely_ it seemed a waste for that mind-blowingly intelligence to be stagnating like it was. His mind was brilliant, and that kind of mind should be used for something. If Greg could have any influence on Sherlock he vowed then and there to make it something good.

While his main motivation for consulting with Sherlock was altruistic there were several secondary motivations. However tactless and cruel Sherlock happened to be he was still right in most cases, and that was a real professional asset. He would be a fool to ignore a man that had kept his case solve rate higher than any other team in London. Of course his solve rate had always been higher than average, partly due to his choice of subordinates and partly due to his own ridiculous hours and rather hands on approach, but he was getting tired. 

He wasn’t in his thirties anymore; he was getting slower and the years of treating his body poorly had begun to catch up to him. He had to stop smoking because he was becoming alarmingly short of breath and his doctor was concerned about his high blood pressure. It wasn’t that he was lazy or incompetent, but he knew his limits and, physically speaking, he was reaching them. He could use all the help he could get.

***

A rather difficult and bizarre case had been solved, in less than half the time expected, with the help of Sherlock Holmes and Lestrade was happily walking home from work, exhausted but pleased, when a black car stop at the curb just in front of him. A young woman slid out of the front passenger seat, she was younger than 30 but not by much, and was wearing an elegant, well-cut, black suit.

Lestrade tensed unconsciously when she approached, as a policeman he’d seen smaller women, and men for that matter, do more than enough damage. A girl of 15 had bashed her father’s head in with a brick and a young boy of 10 had killed his grandfather with a well placed knife to the femoral artery and it was impossible to see things like that and still believe children and woman were incapable of taking down a fully grown man. He had learned to be cautious of everyone during their initial approach. When the woman reached him she paused, seeming to acknowledge his boundaries before handing him an ID card. MI6, fantastic.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade,” she addressed him crisply, looking directly into his eyes with a vaguely disconcerting and rather intense stare, his wariness went up a notch, she was military originally, special forces at a guess. Sherlock wasn’t the only one who could read people. “I’d like you to come with me, we have some matters of national security to discuss.”

“Okay,” he replied and after a moment of careful consideration followed her to the car. Strangely she got into the front passenger seat and indicated for him to sit in the back. He shrugged and got in, in his limited experience with the secret service he had found them to be overly concerned with displays of their power over him as a mere police officer so her ignoring him was hardly unusual. The car was however, unusually luxurious for a government vehicle its seats were a warm leather and the interior looked and smelled new, like freshly cleaned leather and generic air freshener. He startled slightly when he looked to his left and found there was a man sitting beside him. About his age, maybe a little younger, The man was obviously the woman’s superior, he had the air of someone who was entirely too accustomed to getting his own way. The man was dressed, in Lestrades less than professional opinion, in a suit that was probably worth more than the annual income of a small nation, it was bespoke with a thin pin stripe and a matching waistcoat and there was a pocket watch chain attached to a button on the waistcoat. It screamed of importance and very old money.

“Afternoon,” Lestrade said pleasantly, as if being essentially kidnapped by the secret service was a daily occurrence. Every single one of his prior experiences with the intelligence services had shown him that any sort of perceived weakness would be exploited and appearing to be phased or uncomfortable would set in motion the kind of behaviour and attitude he would rather avoid.

The man was still looking out the window but Lestrade was startled by the man’s reflection on the clean glass of the window, it looked familiar. He was certain that he’d never met this man before, but there was something about him that calmed him and he was very wary of that feeling. It wasn’t a good idea to feel comfortable around someone from the secret service, especially someone as high up as this man must have been, they were spies and that’s what they would always be. They were dangerous, unpredictable and unwaveringly loyal to one thing only, there was no room for personal allegiance when it conflicted with their loyalty to the crown.

The man didn’t turn to look at him, but he did speak and somehow that made it more menacing, perhaps because it was difficult to see the expression on his face.

“You recently began utilizing the aid of a civilian,” he said, his voice was even and politely controlled but it hinted of leashed anger or some other strong emotion that Lestrade couldn’t quite identify, “I’m sure you do not need me to inform you that this is a violation of several rules and regulations that you have sworn to uphold.”

Lestrade frowned feeling a shiver of unease run up his spine, and steeled himself against the possibilities, each more troubling than the last. “I am aware that it could be considered illegal- or at the very least unethical- however the civilian consultant is an asset to the Met and it would be downright stupid to let him go when he can do so much for London.”

“You will cease consulting him,” The man ordered coolly, which reinforced Lestrade’s original belief that he was not used to people disobeying him.

“I’m afraid I’m not willing to do that,” he said firmly, adding a clipped “sir,” in an attempt at civility.

“Perhaps I am not being clear,” the man said, his voice becoming positively icy as he turned to look at Lestrade, finally, “if you insist on consulting with an unverified, untested source I will be forced to inform your superior and you will be suspended indefinitely.”

Lestrade’s response was cut off before it could even form on his lips, derailed as he stared, the man now faced him and the light of the street lamp illuminating his features for the first time in the tense discussion. He recognised that face. How could he not? He had seen that face every day for almost 20 years. He was older now, his features more pronounced and his face open without the cover of a mask, but it was undoubtedly him. The dancer. He was no less terrifying up close, no less controlled in stillness, and those _eyes_. 

He found himself being glad for the encounter despite himself, because at least he had finally discovered what colour those arresting eyes were. A 20-year-old mystery finally solved. Calling the man’s eyes Blue seemed woefully inaccurate but he didn’t have a descriptor in his vocabulary that fit, they weren’t cerulean or aqua or the colour of the sky but there was nothing plain about them, nothing so unimaginative as just ‘blue’. 

The knowledge that this man had once danced on stage in skin tight clothing didn’t make him less terrifying, it really didn’t affect Lestrade’s opinion of him at all, but it was an interesting thing to know. Lestrade found himself wondering if the man still danced, and fiercely hoping he did. It would be a real shame if he didn’t, he had been magnificent on stage, magnificent and joyfully free. In that dark car speeding through London’s back streets the man didn’t seem to have much joy at all. He caught himself as soon as he thought it, trying to push it back and pretend he didn’t care about this stranger, because he shouldn’t. He didn’t know this man and he hadn’t known the young dancer in a mask either. Knowing this new tantalising fact changed nothing.

“I think you’ll find that, while he might not be on the governments payroll, he is on the books as a confidential informant, which gives me the right to ask for his opinion on matters relating to my cases, my connection with Sherlock is perfectly credible. It might put me in an awkward position, and on a stretch open an investigation and lead to suspension, but it is hardly grounds for the termination of my employment,” he argued pleasantly. Conversations with the secret service always gave his social skills and patience a good workout, he had only dealt with them a handful of times but he had a feeling that he’d be getting himself into many more of these types of situations if he continued to work with Sherlock, the man was a magnet for trouble of one sort or another. It was actually strangely rewarding to enrage someone just by being overly pleasant when they were expecting shouting and swearing. Putting people off balance was a good way of undermining authority, while being terrifically passive aggressive, which he liked.

The man’s eyes narrowed slightly but Lestrade just looked politely back at him and smiled.

“If I make it an order,” the man eventually said, but Lestrade cut him off when he paused relishing the look of outrage.

“You can’t,” he replied blithely, as pleasantly as before but with a hint of steel in his voice, “unless you go through official channels you have no authority over me.”

“Perhaps not,” The man stated with a lazy half smile that was absolutely terrifying, “however you can be sure that we will be keeping a very close eye on you, Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

“I look forward to it.” 

The car slowed to a stop and Lestrade was unsurprised to find they were outside his flat. He unclipped his seatbelt, opened the door and held out a hand to the secret service agent; “it was lovely to meet you, Mr…” he trailed off in askance.

The mans smile was tight lipped as he answered, “Mycroft Holmes.”

Lestrade huffed out a surprised “huh”, shook Holmes’ hand, nodded his goodbye and got out of the car. He made sure to close the car door gently behind him but didn’t look back as he made his way inside the complex, once out of sight he bounded up the stairs to his third floor flat where he sat down heavily on his favourite armchair. His heart tripping, beating fast as he finally allowed himself to feel the fear that had been lurking in the back of his mind since Holmes had threatened his job. In light of that particular information the entire conversation made much more sense, but the man having a familial connection to Sherlock also made him more dangerous to Lestrade.

The conversation and subsequent threats made Lestrade more than a little bit paranoid in the days following, he was hyperaware of the CCTV cameras pointing in his direction and the black cars that were so numerous in the streets of central London. As a police officer he was already vigilant in his travels throughout London and the extra stress was beginning to take its tole. It didn’t help that at least once a week, always on a Thursday, Mycroft Holmes would contact him in a strange or creepy way. A call on a public telephone, a phantom knock on his front door with a note slid under the gap and more nighttime visits to black cars and dark buildings than he cared to count. 

Each time they met Mycroft Holmes would make him an offer. It started off as not so veiled threats but it quickly escalated to attempted bribes or flat out blackmail as Mycroft realised Lestrade would not be so easily moved. Lestrade remembered every single thing he was offered in exchange for booting Sherlock off his cases. They ranged from money, to connections, leave days, a lighter workload, expensive tickets to various events including the A League Grand Final and finally, an outrageous offer for a generous retirement package with included investment portfolio and property in Essex. Of course he had always said no, but as his patience frayed he had stopped being polite and had become dismissive and even outright rude, none of which seemed to deter Mycroft in the least.

He understood what Mycroft was trying to do, and he had a strange sort of respect for him for it. He was trying to protect his brother, an admirable goal, but he didn’t have to be such a twat about it. Despite Mycroft’s high-handed and frankly offensive approach Lestrade found himself keeping his regular meetings with Mycroft a secret from his friends and his father. He wasn’t entirely sure why but he guessed that they would overreact about the whole thing and he really didn’t want that.

***

It was 6 months after their first meeting when Mycroft Holmes walked into Lestrade’s office on a Monday. Lestrade knew immediately that the unspoken rules of their long battle of the wills had changed, Mycroft had never strayed from their regular Thursday meeting, not once in the full 6 months. The fact that is was Monday wasn’t the only odd thing about that particular situation. For the first time ever Mycroft had come to Lestrade’s office a move which he never would have made before as it put the balance of power clearly in Lestrades favour. It was a bad sign and the tight look in his eyes and aggressively stiff posture made it clear that something was amiss. When Lestrade looked up to Mycroft’s eyes he saw a strange sort of masked panic that held an undertone of something like guilt.

“What can I do for you Mr Holmes?” Lestrade asked casually, with an attempt at a reassuring smile.

“You could answer a question for me,” Mycroft replied, taking a steading breath his face slipping back into an unreadable mask, with obvious effort. Something had seriously affected him.

“Is Sherlock okay?” Lestrade asked, sitting up straight in his chair.

“He is not injured, or in any sort of trouble, far from in fact” Mycroft replied, clearly seeing the tension in Lestrades form and rushing to correct his assumptions “however I would like to know something.”

Lestrade slumped back into his chair, “Ask away.”

“My brother has checked himself into a rehabilitation facility,” Mycroft said body stiff with tension.

Lestrade waited for the question, and when it didn’t come, asked, “Was there a question in there?”

“How did you do it?” Mycroft asked, his usually calm voice wavering ever so slightly, his stiff posture not quite disguising the faint trembling of his hands as they clutched his customary umbrella more tightly “How did you manage to do something in 6 months that I have been attempting for 6 years? How is it that he listened to you, a virtual stranger, and failed to listen to his own brother?” Mycroft’s voice cracked slightly on the word brother.

“I didn’t do it,” Lestrade said quietly, not meeting Mycroft’s eyes, “I gave him options, he saw his own way out. He’s not a normal addict, he likes the high, yes, but he doesn’t do it for that feeling. He uses because he sees too much, feels too much and doesn’t have enough mental stimulation. He’s bored and lonely, so _lonely_ , but I gave him another option.” He ran a hand through his silver hair distractedly “Essentially I helped him replace one addiction with another and I hope to god that this one doesn’t end up killing him faster.” Lestrade turned his chair to face the window and, after a long moment, spoke again, “So maybe you were right. I should have stopped consulting him, I should have let him live his life and find something else to stop his downward spiral but I was more than a little bit selfish in the face of that unbelievable potential. I hope this will end up being better for him, for everyone, but I can’t guarantee that.”

“I did not oppose his consultations with the police because I was afraid for his physical safety, not in the way you think. I was concerned that his regular interactions with the criminal class would result in extended drug use, and escalation to more serious crimes. In short I was afraid that my brother would become the sort of person you seek to put behind bars. I should have known better. I was blinded by my own pessimism and forgot that I know my brother. He is a great man.”

“I think that consulting makes him happy,” Lestrade said carefully, “so will you stop attempting to bribe me?”

“I should never have attempted to do so in the first place, but in the face of my brothers weaknesses I could not countenance an officer abusing his gifts. While I was fairly certain you would not do so I could not risk being incorrect. I assure you, Detective Inspector, that you will never see me again from the moment I walk out your office door.” He turned to leave.

Lestrade spoke up hurriedly “I didn’t ask for that,” Mycroft turned back looking tired and a little defeated. Lestrade made a snap decision. While he might not like what he’d seen of Mycroft in the past he had only met the man through his mask of indifference. The brotherly protectiveness and affection that shone through that mask hinted at a better character than he’d been directly shown. Mycroft looked like he needed a friend, someone to trust with Sherlock and someone to talk to, Lestrade had the time to be that person and more importantly found he wanted to. “Now that you’re not attempting to buy my cooperation perhaps you’d buy me a coffee.”

“Excuse me?”

“Coffee,” he repeated with a smirk, “dark liquid, usually served hot, sometimes with milk although I take mine black, has caffeine in it?”

“Coffee,” Mycroft repeated flatly.

“You don’t have to drink the coffee, Holmes, you can have tea if you’d like.” 

“What would be the purpose of the proposed interaction?” Mycroft said, leaning on his umbrella slightly, making eye contact with Lestrade.

“We can talk, about your brother if you like, and about other things too. That’s what friends do.”

Mycroft stared at Lestrade for a few seconds, with the same expression that Sherlock had when making his deductions. Lestrade waited.

Mycroft looked long and hard at Lestrade before nodding slightly and standing straight “Very well. When would be an appropriate time for this interaction?”

“How about Thursday?” Lestrade asked with a cheeky grin.  
Mycroft’s lips quirked, it was only a small smile but Lestrade still counted it as an achievement, “Would you believe I just had a spot open up on Thursdays? It seems a regular meeting has been cancelled, I find I would be more than happy to fill it with more pleasant activities.”

Lestrade took that as an apology, of sorts and nodded, feeling his grin stretch wider.

Unsurprisingly Lestrade had been right. Once he had gotten through the layers of masks and misdirection Mycroft Holmes was easy to talk to with intelligent conversation and a beautiful, soft laugh. He was a good friend, when Lestrade finally managed to worm his way past those defences, despite his tendency towards drama and arrogance. Sure they had fights, sometimes explosive but mostly limited to a friendly bickering, which seemed to somehow bring them closer together. And if Lestrade sometimes dreamed of a very flexible adult Mycroft in ballet tights he never mentioned it. 

***

Mycroft had met Lestrades other friends with limited success, Dimmock was terrified of him and Gregson thought he was too posh and condescending but surprisingly, Molly really liked him. Molly’s little crush on Sherlock was a well-known unspoken fact, but Lestrade didn’t think that had anything to do with her view of Mycroft. Molly would be the first to say that Sherlock wasn’t a particularly nice person, but she was attracted to his intelligence, as well as his looks. That she didn’t have that same attraction to Sherlock’s older brother, Lestrade couldn’t really understand. 

Mycroft was nice to her in all the little ways Sherlock never was, he asked her about her work and listened to what she had to say; he wasn’t condescending or superior. It was refreshing the way he treated her, and Lestrade could admit to himself, he found that kindness incredibly attractive. Not that he treated her in a romantic way, he treated her almost like an older brother might and very similar to the way Lestrade treated her. From the first time he’d met her Mycroft had been kind, if a little distant.

“My brother doesn’t deserve the affection of people like her.”

“Not yet, no.” Lestrade replied thoughtfully, “but maybe, just maybe, someone will come along who forces him to be worthy of them.”

“I don’t mean to be cruel, but I don’t believe Molly is that person.” Mycroft noted, not unkindly.

“No, she’s not that person. But she will find someone,” Lestrade said with a sad smile, “she’s not the first person, or the last person, to love someone who wouldn’t make her happy.”

After that conversation it seemed as though Mycroft made more of an effort with Molly, he stopped holding himself at a distance and attempted to really befriend her. And it worked. When Mycroft turned the full force of his patience and personality on someone it was almost hypnotic, and very difficult to ignore. His kind treatment of Molly endeared Lestrade even more to him. And joined the ever growing list of things he found himself noticing, and appreciating like Mycroft’s honest smiles, slightly lopsided and addictive. His unspoken fondness for fancy dark chocolate and even greater fondness for cheap Maltezers, and perhaps most of all his dry but witty brand of humour that was so often overlooked by others. Of course Lestrade didn’t like everything about Mycroft, he knew that his friend was arrogant, condescending and could be brutal and borderline cruel in his business dealings. However only Mycroft’s friends got to see his remorse after he’d made a tough call, his guilt over deaths and his righteous anger over justice thwarted. Lestrade couldn’t help but feel that the good in Mycroft far outweighed the bad and really, what more could you ask for a friend, even one he was having increasing difficulty seeing in a platonic light. Hell, platonic had set sail months ago, sometime between Mycroft asking about Sherlock’s rehab and the first time Mycroft properly laughed because of him

Lestrade found Mycroft came up in his surprisingly often as he referenced something Mycroft said or did in conversations with his other friends or his father. He found himself getting needlessly defensive in the face of the knowing look that they all adopted every time he did it, although Molly’s eyes tended to be kinder in their knowledge than the others, a fact he did not find comforting. His father, of course, was the most obnoxious of them all, and had taken to teasing him mercilessly about it, with gems like:

“So, when are you going to introduce your dear old dad to your posh boyfriend? Are you afraid I’ll embarrass you?”

or 

“Mycroft might like this book, maybe I should buy it for him as an engagement present.”

And so on. While Lestrade found it annoying and more than a little embarrassing, he let his dad do it. Perhaps he was a glutton for punishment, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to make his father stop.

The one person who was openly against Lestrade’s friendship with Mycroft was of course Sherlock. In Sherlock’s mind Lestrade belonged to him, he was Sherlock’s Police Officer and that title left no room for being Mycroft’s friend too. It seemed that Sherlock thought the worst of his brother at all times, therefore he thought that Mycroft was attempting friendship with ‘his’ police officer purely to annoy or undermine his younger brother. One day, about a year after they had first met, while examining a headless young man, Sherlock turned his head in Lestrade’s direction.

“You should ask him how he paid for university,” Sherlock said.

“Why would I do that?” Lestrade asked, immediately understanding that Sherlock was talking about Mycroft based solely on his tone of voice.

“Because it might be enough to stop the ridiculous notion that he is worthy of your friendship,” Sherlock replied, still not looking up.

“Well that’s unlikely, and besides it’s not any of my business,” Lestrade said lightly, “now can you tell me anything about the body?”

“I can, but I won’t until you agree to ask him.”

“Well then you can fuck off,” he snapped, eyes narrowing , “I have better things to be doing and you do not control or influence my actions.”

Sherlock reluctantly went back to examining the body and made his deductions a little more obnoxiously than usual before flouncing away from the crime scene in a glorified sulk. Sherlock’s suggestion hadn’t made Lestrade at all curious, he was sure that Sherlock was just trying to wind him up and upset his brother. Besides he was reasonably certain that Sherlock was referencing Mycroft’s dancing, which he already knew about. 

On the Thursday of that week Mycroft seemed unusually distracted, staring unseeingly into the half empty mug in front of him. If Mycroft had wanted to talk about what was bothering him he would have spoken, so Lestrade remained silent. Sometimes being silent in the presence of someone else made thinking about unpleasant things bearable. Eventually, after Lestrade’s mug had been drained of coffee, Mycroft spoke.

“My brother,” he began softly, still looking away, “he was 8 when I went away to university. My father pushed me to work harder at school than all my peers and I graduated high school when I was 16, although I could have graduated at 14. I was a little over two years into my advanced degree, Politics and International Relations with Honours, when I came home from university for Christmas. I was 18 and I thought I was a true adult,” Mycroft scoffed quietly “I thought that I was strong enough, old enough and mature enough to take on my father and his rather conservative world views. I had been the favourite son, the one who worked hard and never questioned his authority, until that day.” He paused and took a steadying breath.

“You don’t have to tell me, Mycroft.” Lestrade said gently, “I don’t need to know.”

Mycroft just shook his head and continued as if Lestrade had not spoken, “It was Christmas Eve and I sat down at the dinner table and calmly informed my family that I was gay. My father threw a carving knife at me and disinherited me on the spot. My mother punched him in the face, bless her.” He took an unsteady breath, hands tightening around his mug of lukewarm tea. 

“I left the house that night and stayed at an inn. I snuck into the house early Christmas morning and said goodbye to Sherlock, gave him his gift and told him to write to me, before I headed back to Cambridge. When I arrived my dorm room had been packed up and my things sent off to a charity shop, my fees had been reinstated and my scholarship taken away. I spent the last money I had travelling to London hoping I would be able to find a scholarship there.” He chuckled bitterly “but my father was a vindictive man, rather a Holmesian trait I’m afraid and he had paid off every Dean in London and had all the open academic scholarships filled in less than 48 hours. I was lost, without funds, without a job and without a home.” He paused again, his voice had wavered a little at the end and Lestrade wanted desperately to comfort him but he knew that Mycroft needed to finish his story. 

“My mother travelled all the way to London to see me. She could have just given me money but she wanted me completely independent so she gave me a push in the right direction and left me to my own devices. I managed to find myself a full scholarship at a university that accepted all my credit points and had the same degree I had been doing at Cambridge, it was a rather unorthodox scholarship but that’s not the point at the moment.” He waved it off “My parents divorced directly after that but it took my mother years to settle that case and get full custody of Sherlock. By that time I was already out of university and the damage had been done. Sherlock, being himself, had deleted that Christmas Eve conversation and accepted my father’s version of events. He is under the impression that I bribed and blackmailed my way through university at best and slept my way through it at worst.”

“I’m so sorry Mycroft.”

“My story is hardly unique, Lestrade, and I fared far better than most. I became successful despite my father’s reaction, and wealthy enough in my own right without his blood money. Sherlock inherited all of it and, using that as an example, it is clear that money doesn’t buy happiness. Sherlock still remembers me as an insecure, arrogant 18 year old just as I still remember him as a frightened, brilliant but amazingly lonely 10 year old. He has never given me a chance to get to know him as an adult, and I find that…” he trailed off searching for the appropriate word.

“Heartbreaking,” Lestrade murmured softly.

He nodded once, “Yes.”

After a meaningful pause Mycroft cleared his throat. “So now you see why he dislikes me so intensely.”

“The logic of children rarely makes proper sense,” Lestrade replied carefully, “they tend to have less control over their emotions, and less understanding of others. He felt abandoned, confused and the person he had looked up to was being repeatedly put down by his father, it does make a childish kind of sense. But he should not treat you so badly now. Not after everything you’ve done for him.” 

“Perhaps not,” Mycroft replied softly, “but there’s not much I can do about it now. He is rather set in his ways, is he not?”

“True enough, but you shouldn’t beat yourself up about it. It wasn’t your fault, none of it was, and you tried your hardest to do right by him. He needs to do a bit of growing up, in my opinion.”

Mycroft smiled sadly, “yes, I think he’s starting to grow up. Now that he’s sober and occupied with his experiments and the cases I can see him maturing. I think I have you to thank for that.”

“Not only me,” Lestrade objected, “I just pushed him in the right direction.”

Mycroft caught Lestrade’s eye and held the contact saying sincerely, “and for that, I thank you.”

The resulting silence was surprisingly comfortable considering the topic of conversation. Mycroft’s phone rang, the electronic buzzing, because Mycroft’s phone was always on silent, shattering the silence.

“Pardon me a moment,” Mycroft said, answering the phone with a clipped, “Holmes.”

In the earlier days of their friendship Mycroft had left the room to take his calls but as they had grown closer a level of trust was reached that allowed him to speak of highly classified projects in front of Lestrade. That kind of trust was humbling, to an extent, and also incredibly flattering. In part because it meant that there was little Mycroft didn’t trust him with, but also because it meant his security clearance was at least 4 levels higher than it had been previously, which made him feel a little like James Bond and he liked that.

“Are you injured?” Mycroft asked, looking worried, “I see. I will of course handle this issue directly and personally.”

“You are concerned about _that_ at this moment?”

“Very well,” he said tightly, “I will see to that also. Personally.”

Lestrade waited patiently for Mycroft to finish his call before asking blandly, “Problem?”

“Not as such. My assistant was in an accident while pursuing a line of inquiry on my behalf. She’s not severely injured, only a broken leg, however I have several things I need to see to. Including her vehicle, apparently it is very important to her.” He frowned, the importance of a mere automobile clearly lost on him.

Lestrade smiled “Well I can help with that, if you like. My dad is a mechanic and has his own shop, as you know, I’d be happy to work on her car myself and you’d get a good discount.”

“The car is quite expensive, and the damage extensive enough for it to be a rather large job, apparently. The parts may be difficult to obtain and expensive,” he said carefully, “I would not dream of asking for anything less than the market price for your labour.”

“What kind of car?” he asked with interest.

Mycroft blinked, “the vehicle is small and red.”

Lestrade laughed, Mycroft’s uncharacteristic cluelessness was strangely endearing. “Make, model, year?”

Mycroft took out his phone and fiddled around for a moment before showing Lestrade a picture. He couldn’t help the excited gasp that escaped. 

“An Aston Martin? You had her doing dangerous work in an ASTON MARTIN? That car… the DB-5 is the original James Bond car.”

Mycroft chuckled, “I’m sure she enjoys the irony.”

“I am _definitely_ fixing her. I’d do it for free,” he said firmly.

“You _will_ be paid.”

Lestrade waved it off “We’ll talk about it later, I’ll text you the address to send it to you. I will go in tomorrow to assess the damage and Dad will help me order the parts if we need any.”

“Thank you, Lestrade.”

***

Lestrade realised as soon as he went to inspect the damage to the car that it was not just a great DB-5, it was also the very same one that he and his father had fixed up all those years ago. It seemed fitting that after working so hard to make it roadworthy once he and his father would be the ones to return it to that former glory. Lestrade found himself spending the majority of the following weekends in his fathers’ garage, he felt an overwhelming need to be personally involved in this repair job. It was incredibly lucky that despite the aesthetic damage to the car that none of the integral (and expensive) parts needed replacing. 

Head buried under the DB-5 Lestrade heard his father speak up “Hello there, I’m Simon. Is there something I can help you with today?”

He didn’t bother looking up his father had this newcomer handled and he was concentrating on the intricate work in front of him. But he nearly dropped his wrench when he heard the potential customer reply.

“I am Mycroft Holmes, I was under the impression that Lestrade” he paused slightly and clarified “that is - your son Lestrade- was working here today.”

Simon blinked in shock but his expression quickly turned into a delighted smirk, “Well Mr Holmes I have heard a lot about you.”

That galvanised Lestrade into action and he stumbled out from underneath the car. Running a hand distractedly through his hair he felt the catch and pull as he spread a smear of sticky engine fluid through his silver hair, fantastic. He was hyperconscious of his appearance, wearing a battered white t-shirt that was covered in stains and grease and ripped jeans that had definitely seen better days he felt woefully under-prepared to talk to the always perfectly presented Mycroft.

Which made it even more of a surprise when he saw Mycroft as he stepped out of the back, he almost didn’t recognise him. Gone were Mycroft’s customary three-piece suits, in their place he wore a well-cut pair of jeans, a black button up shirt and heavy boots. It wasn’t that Lestrade thought of Mycroft as being somehow less ‘manly’ because of the Ballet or the sedentary nature of his work but the man was graceful and refined and painfully in control so it seemed so odd to Lestrade to see him surrounded by mess and grease-stained mechanics.

“Mycroft, hi!” he said, a little too enthusiastically, he felt fifteen again faced with a painful crush, sweaty hands and all “Is there a problem?”

“Oh no” Mycroft said with a genuine smile, “I was just getting acquainted with your father. How is the repair coming along?”

“It’s going well enough, as you see,” Lestrade said, gesturing vaguely behind him at the mostly completed repairs.

Mycroft looked past Lestrade’s sweaty form and nodded “Indeed, I thought perhaps I could be of some assistance with the repairs. Knowing nothing about automobiles I don’t imagine I’ll be able to help with the specifics but I am perfectly capable of handing out tools or holding things.”

“You want to help?” Lestrade queried.

“If I wouldn’t be more hinder than help, that is.” Mycroft said.

“No!” Lestrade said quickly, “I’d like the company, maybe I can teach you a thing or two. You never know when you’ll need to change a tyre or oil.”

“I would like that,” Mycroft said with a smile.

Simon coughed awkwardly, “Well… I have some work to do, it was nice to meet you Mycroft.”

“Likewise, Mr Lestrade, perhaps you would like to accompany us for coffee during your break today?”

Simon looked visibly startled and looked at Greg, who nodded, “Um… well… okay?”

They worked on the car, Mycroft handing Lestrade tools or bending down to watch as Lestrade slowly went through the motions, explaining what each part did and how it needed to be fixed. Eventually Mycroft, under Lestrade’s direction, did some hands on work, which Lestrade took great pleasure in watching. They were both so absorbed in their task and light conversation that they lost track of time.

“Are you boys ready to go to lunch?” Simon called out.

Lestrade wiped his hands and checked the time; he was surprised that it had gotten so late. Mycroft stood and wiped his face with the back of his hand, the summer was unusually hot and there was no air conditioning in the garage and with all the hard work they had been doing it was sweltering inside. Lestrade smirked when he noticed that Mycroft had left a smudge of black grease on his nose, which Lestrade found far more attractive on the usually composed Mycroft than he probably should. They washed up in the small, but serviceable bathroom, before walking a short distance to the café on the corner of the street. Lestrade was irrationally nervous to have his father meet Mycroft, it felt like bringing a girl home for the first time to be judged and interrogated. He shouldn’t have worried that they wouldn’t get along.

Mycroft laughed, sincerely, at Simon’s jokes and listened attentively to his stories, he was polite, personable and open in a way that Lestrade had rarely seen in their acquaintance. Mycroft tended to act like a Politian with fake smiles and calm, emotionless words unless he was truly comfortable with someone, it was a subtle difference that Lestrade hadn’t noticed until they had become true friends. 

He felt privileged to be in the very small group of people that Mycroft felt comfortable around, although he was perplexed and slightly jealous that his father had managed to gain entry into that exclusive club so quickly and effortlessly. When the hour break was up Mycroft made his excuses and returned to his car. Both Lestrades watched as the black car drove away.

“Greg…” Simon said slowly, carefully.

“I know,” he replied quietly, “I’m fucked.”

“I wouldn’t say that, but maybe, if you’re lucky, you can make that happen,” Simone said with an exaggerated lecherous wink.

“That’s just nasty, never refer to my sex life. At all. Ever.”

“Look, Greg, it’s been far too long since you’ve put yourself out there. Metaphorically speaking” Lestrade groaned but Simon continued blithely a small smirk the only sign he had heard his son at all “And now you’re interested in someone, seriously interested if I’m reading you right, and you’re too afraid to do something about it. I may be old but I have eyes, son, and Mycroft is interested. He wouldn’t have come here today if he wasn’t interested. And he wouldn’t have tried so hard to impress me if he only wanted something short term.”

Lestrade looked away, focusing on his shoes as he answered, “I appreciate your input dad, really I do… but well, Mycroft is my friend, and I’m old enough to realise that having a true friend like him is far more important than getting my rocks off. I know the old ‘I don’t want to ruin our friendship’ excuse is cliché. But this feels to important, it is too important to be treated casually and if there is any chance I could lose Mycroft as a friend over this...” Lestrade shrugged helplessly.

Simon patted Lestrades shoulder “You’ve never been casual about your long-term relationships, you overthink things and you are irritatingly practical but I’m proud of you. At the same time, there is something to be said for taking a risk. You and Mycroft are dancing around each other, have been since you became friends probably since you met. Eventually though that nervous anticipation and the cautious friendship that never quite manages to be more will sour, trust me son.” Simon gave a world-weary sigh “eventually Mycroft will get impatient, maybe he’ll push the issue and come to you, but there’s a good chance he’ll walk away. Not only from this little flirtation and requited but oblivious love, but also from the friendship entirely and from you. If that happens you’ve lost your friendship anyway. Take the advice of an old man Greg, it’s worth the risk.”

Simon reached out and squeezed his son’s shoulder again, holding the connection until Greg looked up with uncertain eyes.

“I’ll think about it, no promises, but I’ll think.”

Simon rolled his eyes “You’ve done enough thinking, Greg. I’d bet if you called Molly or Dimmock or Gregson now they’d all tell you the same thing, with various levels of tact.” Greg huffed out a laugh, Gregson certainly wasn’t known for his tact. “So if you do need to think about it,” Simon continued, “remember that I’ll support you, and your friends will too. But I would recommend thinking rather quickly, considering Mycroft misplaced his phone.” He smirked as he fished the offending item out of his pocket and dangled it in front of Lestrade “He’ll probably be needing that.”

Greg snatched the phone out of his father’s hand and glared at him, “you stole his phone? You know I could arrest you for that.”

“The more time you spend arguing with me the less time you have to make it home and shower before you have to give that phone back,” Simon replied with a frankly diabolical smirk.

“Shit!” Lestrade cursed as he shoved the phone into his pocket, picked up his own phone and keys and half ran half stumbled out of the garage. In his haste he bashed both his shins on several different low-lying machines and car bumpers before he managed to reach his own car. He could hear his father’s laugh echoing in the concrete space, as well as his parting words.

“You’re welcome!”

Lestrade drove to his flat faster than he should have, breaking at least four traffic laws in the process and showered just as fast, although he made sure he was properly devoid of engine grease. He was strangely glad that he was in such a rush because he didn’t have time to agonise about what he should wear he just threw on the first thing he laid a hand on. Which happened to be his nicest pair of black jeans that did wonderful things for his arse and a nice but comfortable green button-up that had been laid out for the following Thursday. Rushing to his front door he almost forgot to put shoes on, but impatiently pulled his socks on and stepped into his shoes without doing up the laces before racing out the door and back to his car. 

Even though he knew where Mycroft lived and vice versa, they had never been inside each other’s apartments, perhaps because that was something that seemed more intimate than having coffee in a neutral location or maybe because it just hadn’t come up. Mycroft’s apartment was in a nice area full of historic houses and upper middleclass retirees but it was hardly the expensive townhouse he’d expected when he first went to the street to pick Mycroft up. Lestrade parked carefully and ran a hand through his wet hair to get rid of the spikes before taking a steadying breath and getting out of his car. By the time he’d made it to Mycroft’s flat, which was halfway across London from his place, more than an hour had past.

He ran up the stairs, surprised at the lack of additional security, and knocked on the door to the flat on the second floor. He waited anxiously for the door to open and had his explanation ready when the door opened to reveal Mycroft’s assistant.

“Good afternoon, Detective Inspector Lestrade,” she said cheerfully, she spoke in a great rush as she breezed past him and down the stairs, “he wasn’t expecting you, however he still has an hour or so before he’s due at work so you may go through, I was just dropping off some files so no need to mention that I was here. He’s in the second room on the left.”

Lestrade blinked “Oh… thank you.”

The door she had gestured to was half open and when Lestrade looked inside he saw a wall of mirrors with a bar at around waist height, it seemed Mycroft had kept up ballet after all. In the mirror he could clearly see Mycroft, in black tights and a form fitting black sleeveless shirt that showcased his lean, muscled arms. Lestrade only realised there was music playing when he was less than a foot away from the door, it was something fluid and classical, somewhat less aggressive than the music that had played at the performance almost 20 years before. Time had dulled Lestrade’s memories of 20-something year-old Mycroft dancing, but Lestrade was certain no memory would have prepared him for the sight of a fully adult Mycroft dancing. He was still so fluid and graceful, so controlled in his movements and so painfully sensual. There seemed to be something altered, a new level of confidence, as if the security of his home and work situation and his sense of self had spilled over into his dancing.

Lestrade nudged the door open and leaned against the frame to watch, utterly hypnotised by once again, finally, being able to watch Mycroft’s body in motion each bend and twist seemed to pull another tendril of arousal from Lestrades body until he was painfully aware of his physical reaction. Mycroft was completing a routine with his eyes shut, and Lestrade could clearly see the tension slowly draining away as he lost himself in his art. Lestrade waited until the routine had finished and the music had reached its climax before he spoke, he would have liked to watch Mycroft dance some more but he wasn’t sure he could handle it without broadcasting his arousal even more prominently, and that might make things beyond awkward.

“You’re still amazing at that,” he said, making sure to let his admiration seep into his words.

Mycroft visibly started and flattened his feet to the floor from their pointe position before slowly turning to face Lestrade. 

“Detective Inspector Lestrade,” he said stiffly, “what can I do for you?”

“You left your phone at the garage,” he replied with a smile and handed the object to Mycroft.

Mycroft grabbed his phone, not looking Lestrade in the eye “Thank you, if that is all you may go.” He turned as if trying to dismiss him. 

“I was actually hoping to have a conversation with you.”

Mycroft’s head whipped around and he bit out “If you are planning on mocking me you may save your taunts for someone who will be affected by them. I am proud of my skills as a dancer and I refuse to let someone make me feel lesser because of them, even you.” His eyes narrowed.

“Why on earth would I mock you? I already told you that I think it’s amazing. And besides, this isn’t the first time I’ve seen you dance.”

“What?”

Lestrade explained with a soft smile “ _Les Hommes_ , ‘Negotiations’, 1989. I saw you dance then, never forgot it. You were brilliant utterly captivating, still are,”

Mycroft’s answering smile was brittle, “and you failed to notice until _now_ that I was the dancer? I guess my brother has a point about your abysmal observation skills.”

“Hardly, I recognised you the first time we met. Be a little difficult not to. I… uh,” he coughed in an attempt to cover his embarrassment, “I may have kept a poster. Or two.” 

“You… you didn’t say anything.”

“Why would I? It wasn’t exactly relevant to the situation, and it didn’t change anything. I still thought you were a twat.”

“It didn’t change anything,” Mycroft parroted flatly.

“Not really, no. Would realising that I played football as a teen change your opinion of me?”

“No. But it’s not the same thing.”

Lestrade crossed his arms stating, “It is exactly the same thing. Except you’re actually _good_ at this. Absolutely fucking _brilliant_. If anything it would make me appreciate you more, considering what you would have had to go through in order to get this good, the patience and control and sheer force of will.”

Mycroft just stared at him, confusion and mistrust and hope in his eyes.

“But this isn’t what I came here to talk about,” Lestrade continued firmly.

“Then what did you come here to discuss?”

“Well…” Lestrade looked down, feeling suddenly shy, but squared his shoulders and looked up directly into Mycroft’s eyes, “You’ve been my friend for a good year now, My, and that friendship means a lot to me. More than I could possibly express. But much as I value your friendship, well” he swallowed and blurted out “I want to go out with you. On a date.”

Mycroft seemed lost for words “I… You need to be sure of this, Gregory; My…preference and affection for you must be clear by now but I am well past the age where I am looking for a fling. I need you to be sure that you’re willing to make the commitment. If you can’t handle that, then I cannot take the risk. I could walk away right now, but five dates from now I don’t believe I could. I can’t have our friendship forever tainted by a meaningless fuck. Are you prepared to offer everything?”

“Yes I wouldn’t be here if I wanted something fleeting, I want you, all of you and I want to give you everything I have. Not for a night, or a week or even a year. I’m not going anywhere, even if you say no.” his voice was steady, confident in his declaration overdue as it was.

“Then my answer is yes.”

They were both grinning as they removed the distance between them. Lestrade slipped his hands around Mycroft’s waist and leaned into his shoulder. Mycroft was slightly sweaty from his dance and Lestrade’s hair was still wet from his hasty shower, despite these elements or perhaps because of them, it was as close to perfect as either of them had ever experienced. Mycroft stroked Lestrade’s damp hair with one hand and pulled him close with the other. 

At that moment neither of them was worried about the obstacles they would face in the future: Sherlock’s interference, their equally dangerous and hectic careers and the normal pressures on relationships. They weren’t worried, and they shouldn’t have been, because a strong friendship is the best foundation for a strong relationship and they would remain friends, and lovers, for the rest of their lives.

_End_

**Author's Note:**

> August was a stressful month in my corner of the world, my best friend had to be taken to hospital, my mother was ill, I started my second semester at uni, my oldest sister was halfway around the world (still is) and several other small disasters happened to make it a pretty shitty time. Nevertheless this not-so-little story managed to write itself, often at inconvenient times (who needs sleep anyway?). All my thanks go to my older sister, Archiszera, for filling in as editor, lecroft for organising the exchange and refurinn for being the best friend ever.
> 
> As always I will reply to every comment on the story, or you can find me as [withfiendfyre](http://withfiendfyre.tumblr.com/) on tumblr (all asks welcome, including anonymous ones if you're so inclined).


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